


To Find A Better Song

by homesickblues



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Setting, Flashbacks, Implied Death, M/M, Modern AU, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homesickblues/pseuds/homesickblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate is persistent. Fate never stops for thought or reason. Fate has a tight schedule which cannot be bent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Find A Better Song

**Author's Note:**

> Death is not explicitly stated but it is implied. I didn't feel the need to archive a warning for that.

You wake up from a sleepless night and stumble out into the blisteringly hot day as if you’re still asleep. The sun is hot on your skin, scalding almost, yet you can barely feel it and even if you could, your mother did call and harangue you about not getting enough fresh air and vitamin D the previous day. _All you do is stay inside and draw and waste away_. You’re doing your duty as a son, as a human being, yet the alcohol isn’t quite flushed out of your system. You can feel it sloshing around in your stomach still from the previous night - or earlier this morning, as you passed out on your couch at 4am – and it makes your mouth taste bitter. You don’t regret it, however, because the few hours of carefree bliss are worth even an apocalyptic hangover. You still feel hollow, though. You still feel as if someone has split you open and shucked out your insides and left you to dry. You do not know why, but the feeling lingers in your chest and it feels like the earth is slowly dragging you down to its core.  


You remember that you’re still wearing your work clothes from the previous night; black jeans and a black shirt, which wreak of vodka and the cappuccino that man in the business suit spilled down the front of you as you tried to hand it to him. But, stuffing your sunglasses on your face and shoving your black curls out of the way, you find you don’t care in the slightest. Another night has chewed you up and spit you back out but you still call it a victory because you _survived_. 

**

_You_ survived. _Somehow. It seems you can feel the absinthe in your bones and your head is pounding from where you passed out against the cold table in the Corinthe but you’re_ alive _and somehow that’s a feat to you. It also depresses you further, however, because it was not your intention to be alive. A jolt of panic runs through you when you realize how_ silent _it truly is. Not the kind of silence you can hear, but the kind you can feel, like if you extended your hand you could feel it running through your fingers like syrup. The last you can remember is Joly and L’Aigle’s laughter and the clutter of falling furniture._ Grantaire, _a voice whispers somewhere in the back of your head,_ you coward. _The icy voice is too familiar in its fervor and intensity and it chills you straight to your core._

**

You begin to wonder where you are going. It has not occurred to you that you left the house this morning with no intention of going anywhere in particular. Your legs simply picked you up and led you away from your warm, untouched bed or even a glass of water. You woke, stood, and began walking, and this didn’t seem at all strange to you until this very moment. Perhaps you originally excused yourself into thinking you were going to go buy more cigarettes, or possibly go and get your cellphone fixed after you dropped it (or flung it against a wall) the previous night. But it has become apparent that you aren’t doing any of those things as you’ve walked past both of those locations without pause. You dig a piece of gum out of your pocket to at least help with the taste of bile and stale alcohol that sits on your tongue, but you have no relief for your headache. You’re amazed you even remembered to grab your wallet and your sunglasses. _A drunkard never forgets to protect his eyes from the sun the morning after._ All you know is you are walking and you are not stopping. It is as if you are being led somewhere by an invisible leash, but not against your will. Then you begin to reason with yourself. You tell yourself that you don’t need a reason to be walking. You simply are. You live in a studio apartment nestled in the 9th arrondissement but you find yourself walking further into the touristy part of the city, which you generally avoid as if it had been laid barren by nuclear waste. The opera looms in front of you and you see children in matching navy uniform jumpers marching behind pompous teachers and ravels of teenage girls with cameras all amidst a congestion of tour buses and taxi cabs. Every part of your brain is informing you to turn around at once and wander aimlessly _away_ from here, but your legs keep moving so you do too. It’s hot, unusually hot for Paris, and storm clouds hover above yet do not perspire. You’re reminded of the date by a newspaper stand you pass: June 6th. It explains the heat but not the trance you find yourself in. You question it, as you do everything, but you do not make any effort to remove yourself from it. You find peace in the reverie, if nothing else. The unknowing excites you. 

**

_Knowledge is the worst curse that befalls you, and all at once you wish you hadn’t woken from your dream. Inebriated dreams, you’ve found, make the least sense yet haunt you incessantly. You remember your dream as if you truly lived it, but you know you did not, because the stinging scent of warm blood fills your nostrils to the extent where you can almost_ taste _it and the stillness fills you with dread. Surely the beating hearts and expanding lungs of dozens of souls, dozens of brave insurgents and revolutionary idealists makes more commotion than_ this. _No, the dream was a lie. In the dream you saw him standing atop his barricade, victorious, etched from marble and lightning. His glory_ sings _to you and his pride fills your soul as your friends,_ yes they are my friends _, cheer with relief and purpose. There are no cheers which reach your ears now. It is then you are brought to full consciousness by the sound of rough voices and one voice you know, the familiar voice which spoke to you before. You are behind the billiard table, but it is then you see them._

**

Soon the opera is behind you, but the crowds of tourists do not become any less opaque. The sun is behind clouds now and _you’ve been here before_. Why, of course you have. You live here. This is the city you were raised in; the city where you drew your first breath of life, and where you will certainly draw your last. The city which has all at once gutted you and hummed you the softest of lullabies. But no, _you’ve been here before_. It’s different and when you try and ponder how you find yourself breathless. The feeling of dread that fills you is so sudden you actually gasp out and your hand flies to your chest as if you feel a thick lead bullet pierce your lung, but you don’t halt. The invisible rope pulling you doesn’t wait for you to grasp the raw panic that pumps through your veins with no warning. The world suddenly seems very small and you _can’t breathe_ but you can’t _stop_ either. You’ve realized by this point that this is no ordinary walk, but fate can be kind as much as it can be cruel, so you decide to trust it. Or, you decide to not struggle. You have no choice in this matter. Fate is persistent. Fate never stops for thought or reason. Fate has a tight schedule which cannot be bent. 

**

This is why I am here. This is why I survived. _You no longer find yourself cursing the world and every inhabitant. You no longer curse yourself either, for being too drunken or cowardly to stand with him. The Gods were cruel and merciless yet you are here, in this moment._ Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying. _You want to weep and laugh and sing but these expressions are trapped within you, bursting at your seams but hidden beneath an exterior of divine purpose. Your eyes are wide and your heart races but you are happy. You are_ truly _happy. The light of dawn shining behind Enjolras is almost blinding but you bathe in it, just for a moment, before lifting yourself to your feet and stumbling forward. The eyes of the officers lock onto you with trepidation but there is only one pair of eyes which matter._

**

Half an hour later, you find yourself suspiciously closer to the Seine than you like to be on a week day. Your legs are tired, and the sun is still hot, but your pace does not slow. Your fist clenches and releases by your side, the dread coming and going now like a dull murmur in the back of your mind, but it still keeps you alert. You walk directly down the Rue de Petits Champs, passing the Palais Royale without even a second glance, and take a right on the Rue la Vrillière. The scaffolding above you matched with noisy construction makes you jolt a bit. It isn’t right. It isn’t _how you remember it_. It serves to falter you somewhat and you pause for a moment, the words _this is not my Paris_ clanging around inside of your head like a loose cannon. This causes a sense of urgency to settle in your stomach and you charge on, your pace quickening. More turns lead to more confusion. You have been here a million times before. You used to come here with your mother when she shopped. Your father’s favorite place to find frites is around here somewhere. Yet it is not right. It’s not how you _remember it_. 

**

_He watches you carefully as you stumble toward him like the moth storms the lantern’s glow. You feel yourself say words, words you are not sure you mean, not entirely, but you do not hear them. You do not hear anything anymore except a buzzing in your ears and the pounding of your heart. His lips set in a solid line as he watches you but his eyes are ablaze. He looks at you just as if he is gazing at the flaming effigy of freedom herself, and you realize very blatantly that this is the moment you were born to live. “Vive la Republique!” you repeat the words again as Enjolras’s chest seems to swell at the sound of them. Do you believe in the republic?_ No, _not entirely. But you believe in_ him. _And in this moment, you believe in_ yourself. _You have not believed in yourself in a very long time. The world seems condensed and simple and saturated and then you’re beside him._

**

You reach the Rue Rambuteau and you feel your pace slowing. You have an urge to turn and flee, to call your mother, to sit in the middle of the street and find your breath, but you do not stop. You’re so close you can feel it in every inch of you and it would be worthless to stop now. The last stretch seems to be the longest but finally you’re there. You stand perfectly still on the pavement, in front of a small crêperie with heavy graffiti up its sides like wickedly hideous tattoos. Across the street buildings are being torn down and renovated and rebuilt and it’s _wrong, wrong, wrong_ but not as wrong as the dark building which is the most familiar. Its windows are shut and it’s been renovated heavily as well. You can taste wine on your lips and it confuses you. But your eyes follow the line of the building upward and lock onto the second floor window. Then, as if someone physically grabs your chin and forces you, your head cranes to look to the center of the street. 

**

_“Finish us both at one blow”, you sneer at the officers who look fresh-faced and too young to be about to end the lives of two men. But none of that matters now. It is the last time you see the officers. You turn your head and fix your gaze on the beacon next to you. His eyes are tired, beyond tired, but the flame in them lingers like the dying embers of a once roaring fire. You want to reach to him, touch his granite face and learn the contours of his lips. You have never seen such beauty, and you surely would not again if you were given the chance. But you are content in this moment. You are where you were meant to be all along. Heat seems to radiate off of him and draw you closer. Still, years of doubt leads you to mutter one last question._

**

A man stands in the middle of the pavement, staring up at the same building you were just gazing at. He’s much better dressed than you and probably was rested and well when he awoke this morning. He’s wearing a red shirt with a black blazer, matched with slacks and dress shoes with a leather satchel strapped over his right shoulder. He has blond hair which is short and styled in a business-like fashion which hardly fits his ethereal face with yearns to be framed with a longer style. His eyes are bright green and hard and his features are small but sharp. You figure he works for the government based on the way he dresses, yet he is young, surely too young to have a steady job, so an intern maybe. His arms are crossed and his hips are uneven in his stance. You can’t look away. It perplexes you how the sight of this man makes the setting stop feeling _wrong_ to you and you’re filled with a sense of normalcy, but also melancholy. He looks as if a sculpture from the Louvre has simply dressed itself and walked onto the street. _You have never seen such beauty._

**

_“Do you permit it?” You mumble just loud enough for him to hear. He looks into your eyes, the embers growing stronger, before a smile finds his lips. You feel his fingers touching yours,_ grasping _at yours. They’re calloused but warm, and their touch sends sparks through your spine. You stand high and the grin reaches your eyes, but it will never reach your lips._

**

He sees you. You feel paralyzed on the spot, but his expression begins to reflect your own and he approaches you. His feet glide effortlessly across the cobblestones, _which are not painted and smeared with blood_ , until he is standing merely feet away. He stares at you with clear eyes, his lips slightly parted, before smiling. Its warmth slams into you and your lungs strain for air.  


“Hello,” you say.  


“Hello,” he responds.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I can't decide if I want to make this into a mini-series. If you would like to see more, please let me know in the comments! 
> 
> The title is a lyric from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SaNWWEj7WM) which I think you should give a listen (the lyrics are in the description). I owe [Kerry](http://benshaws.tumblr.com/) for showing it to me. 
> 
> Big thanks to [Laura](http://www.ridyr-writing.tumblr.com), [Shira](http://www.theydieholdinghands.tumblr.com), and [Ashley](http://www.billypronto.tumblr.com) for reading over it/betaing for me. Also huge thanks to tumblr user [barricadeur](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com) for putting up all of the [Les Mis locations on google maps](https://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=202346167946522845573.0004dfc2f7d0addffc79a&msa=0&ll=48.853816,2.341719&spn=0.030835,0.063) which was extremely helpful as I only got to see Paris on a tour bus. 
> 
> My tumblr is [here. ](http://www.beaumarbre.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
